Voyeurism
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Byakuran can recognize Irie anywhere, and the comfort of constancy settles into his thoughts and drags an attempt at a smile over his lips before he's remembered how to understand language." Irie helps with first aid during the Representative War and Byakuran listens to him talk.


Consciousness comes back to Byakuran slowly, easing itself into the corners of his brain and unwinding shivering and aching into his veins. He's listening to someone talk when he realizes he can hear again, idle sound purring against his eardrums in soothing vibration well before he places the voice. But he can recognize Irie anywhere, and the comfort of constancy settles into his thoughts and drags an attempt at a smile over his lips before he's remembered how to understand language.

It takes conscious effort to fit his thoughts around the interpretation of words. It must be indicative of his injuries from the attack, the same damage that is leaving him heavy and unmoving against the ground until even opening his eyes seems an insurmountable task. He occupies himself with reaching for the meaning of the sound rather than struggling for a physical response that is momentarily beyond him, and it comes after a few seconds, words forming out of the babble of speech and shaping around the high notes of panic under Irie's voice.

"-have to live, you can't die now, not here too." There's a pause, a choking inhale as if around sobs, and the weight of fingers press against Byakuran's wrist. The touch is warm and Byakuran doesn't recognize the burn as coming from Sun flames until he can pick out the ticklish itch of healing skin. It doesn't help the low, heavy ache of true damage in his chest and drawing up the line of his arm, but the sharper note of a cut fades off into silence under the effect of the flames. It's a useful trick, Byakuran has often thought, but at the moment he's far more intrigued by the sound of Irie's voice than what effect the other's flames have on his skin.

There's another sharp breath, quick and desperate, and the fingers leave his wrist, push at the edge of Byakuran's shirt so a palm can lie along the drawn-out pain of injury along his ribcage. Byakuran gasps on a breath at the spark of electricity on Irie's fingers but it's not enough to even pause the flow of words from the other's mouth. Byakuran is hardly sure he's listening to anything at all, anymore.

"You _can't_," and Irie's voice cracks on that, skidding high and plaintive until he sounds like the age he actually is, until even when his eyes shut Byakuran can feel the difference ten years makes. "You can't, you can't, you're supposed to be my best friend, I'm supposed to be your-" He cuts himself off sharply but Byakuran doesn't need the words to put form to the images in his head, the remembered flush of Irie's skin under his touch and the taste of the other's mouth against his tongue. He has an eternity of memories from the future, borrowed knowledge from a defunct future and timelines now rejected and tossed aside, and that is enough to spark his thoughts while his skin goes hot, human warmth rising to meet the tingling contact of skin on his.

"You can't die," Irie is going on, mumbling soft and under his breath like it's a chant. He doesn't realize Byakuran is awake, yet, is still talking to himself without expectation of an audience. Byakuran can remember past events, future events that haven't happened when he came into a room while Irie had his headphones on and listened for five minutes, thirty, an hour while the other hummed tunelessly along with half-learned lyrics. This is the same, drawing aside the flimsy curtain over Irie's inner monologue so Byakuran can listen to the harmony he falls into when he thinks he's alone.

"Byakuran," Irie says again, soft and careful, and his fingers draw tight at Byakuran's hip as there's a splash of liquid against the other's skin, and Byakuran finally opens his eyes.

Irie's not looking at him. He's got his head tipped down, his eyes squeezed shut and his shoulder quivering around the panic of worry, and for a minute Byakuran just watches him, reads the youthful line of his jaw and the curl of his hair and comes up with _mine_ in every breath, in every half-repressed sob that runs through the other's skinny shoulders.

"Sho-chan," he says, finally, and his voice is low and purring, warm with all the weight of their past and their futures all tangled together. "Why are you crying?"

Irie jumps, startled into turning to look at him before he can even make an attempt to wipe his eyes. The green is washed brighter by the tears, all but glowing behind the heavy shape of his glasses against his face; it makes Byakuran smile, persuades him to make the effort to lift a hand and grab at Irie's wrist. Irie takes a breath, his entire expression collapsing into lines of relief, and Byakuran isn't surprised when the other rocks forward to press his face against Byakuran's shoulder and sob a sharp startled gasp of relief.

"You were afraid I was going to die," he says, and Irie coughs on another breath. It's not an answer, not even close to one, but Byakuran still smiles up at the sky and brings his hand to curl into the soft of Irie's hair.

It hadn't been a question in the first place.


End file.
